


Cries in vain

by parsleylion



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Abuse, Angst, M/M, Self Harm, mute Brad is mute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12303519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsleylion/pseuds/parsleylion
Summary: Brad’s eyes could tell a thousand stories but there’s no way he could literally tell them to a soul. Instead he’s just got to watch as the strain of fame slowly drives his band mates to destruction, one by one.





	Cries in vain

Brad sees things that in retrospect he perhaps ought not to see. But then again, Brad’s always been like that, since the day he was born and somehow no matter how hard a person tries to block out the greying horrors of the world around them, it’s pretty much a failed task. Brad’s seen a lot through those brown eyes of his. A lot of bad things. He’s seen thunderstorms; the thick smog over Los Angeles caressing the fake tans and candy smiles; he’s seen muggings and random people getting beatings just because they look a little different. Those brown orbs have watched as his kid brother snapped the neck of their pet rabbit; his actions copying those of their father the night before. The night before was one cold, bitter memory in his childhood when Brad’s father strangled his mother with bare hands. Right before his eyes.

  
  


And still he sees it. A never ending montage of destruction, a filmstrip of ugly scenes and desperation. Loneliness and desolation make no bones about smothering his eyes. Call it what you will. He sees it every day of his life and he can’t do a damn thing about it because in one, simple word Brad Delson is helpless. Well, that’s what the people around him have made him believe.

  
  
  


*

  
  


Brad lies in his bunk on the tour bus he calls home. The muffled cries coming from the back of the bus cause his legs to move and even though he knows who they belong to, he still finds himself slipping out into the cold aisle and tiptoeing down to the backroom. The door’s always slightly open which puzzles Brad because surely he’s not the only one who knows what’s going on in there, surely someone else has seen. But as he looks back toward the front of the bus and is greeted with an empty darkness he realises that the rest of his band mates have better ways to spend their spare time than being cooped up in here. Alone.

  
  


A pained cry and Brad finds himself at the doorway, watching scenes through the crack in the door that tear his heart apart. Well, they do much more than that. It’s just hard for Brad to find words to describe what he feels when he watches Chester raping Mike for the fifth time that week. It’s only Tuesday. Brad leans against the wall, eyes caught upon the shadows that bounce around the walls inside. There’s two men in there but only one is moving; their heavy silhouette rocking back and forth in the dim light. And when Brad arches his neck and looks a little closer he can see Mike’s naked body on the floor and then he sees his face and the tears that run down his cheeks.

  
  


And when Brad realises that Mike’s staring back, he closes the door and walks back to his bunk because Mike wants to keep this quiet.

  
  
  


*

  
  


Brad knows it’s late and that perhaps he should be asleep when Joe steps on the bus and flicks the lights on. Joe’s with yet another woman that he’s obviously pulled this week at the after party and as Brad cranes his neck and peers out of the confines of his bunk he’s mildly surprised because lady number eight of the week isn’t peroxide blonde and it actually looks like her voluptuous breasts are real. Brad knows his assumption is correct when minutes later Joe has her sat up on the kitchen counter and his naked body crashes against hers. Brad stares into space, mentally counts down time until one or other of them cry something incoherent out and then the lady is dressed and gone from the bus quicker than you can utter jagged little thrill.

  
  


A shallow cry and Brad finds himself regretting that last thought. He looks on as Joe pulls on his shirt and boxers then sits down on the floor with a solid thud. He wipes furiously at his tears and Brad keeps on watching until finally he’s hopping down from his bunk and tiptoeing down toward the front of the bus. Joe stops sniffing just as Brad steps into the kitchenette but Joe just shakes his head and waves Brad away.

  
  


And when Brad’s getting back into his bunk, he hears the sound of the cupboards being open followed by the unmistaken crumpling of packets of chips and bars of chocolate. Later on Brad hears the eerie noises of someone retching in the bathroom. He closes his eyes and pulls his pillow over his head. It doesn’t block out the sounds but it reminds him that Joe wants to keep this secret.

  
  
  


*

  
  


Brad’s tired the next morning. In fact when he finally gets out his bunk it’s almost midday and as he pulls on some clothes that he’s not quite sure are his or Dave’s, he finds the shaven headed bassist sitting at the front of the bus with a big, dopey smile on his face. There’s three lines of cocaine neatly dancing across the cd case that sits in his lap and Brad’s hand reaches out just in time to stop Dave from leaning down and placing his rolled up dollar bill against the powder. Dave rolls his eyes, is quick to slap Brad’s prying hands away and so he flops down on the couch next to him and watches one of his best friends squander his life away.

  
  


A high pitched giggle escapes Dave’s lips and he falls back against the leather sofa with wide eyes and a hazy gleam to his smile. Brad sighs and bites down on his bottom lip. He does this when he’s at that desolate point halfway between exasperation and utter despair. In other words he does it a lot and that’s probably why these days his lips are always sore. Dave leans down and snorts another three lines. All in one go and practically without pausing for breath. Dave tells him that he’s fucking hardcore now and then he bursts into mechanical fits of laughter.

  
  


And when the cd case falls to the floor and Rob walks in with a bemused look on his face, Brad is quick to snatch the dollar bill away and makes sure to squat away any white powder that has clung itself to Dave. No matter how dangerous it is, Dave has sworn Brad to secrecy about his addiction and Brad, well, he couldn’t tell anyone if he wanted to. He never breaks his promises.

  
  
  


*

  
  


Brad’s eating toast later on when Rob comes into the quiet kitchen and sits down with a dejected sigh. He asks Brad where in fuck are they driving to because he feels lost and Brad points to a battered brochure, his finger prodding the scarlet letters of ‘Toulouse’ that shimmy on the front cover. Rob shrugs and says he’s still lost. Brad sits down and offers him some toast but Rob refuses because he’s not had an appetite at all this tour. Brad’s not entirely sure if it’s the ever changing climates of Europe or the fact that Rob’s being sinking further and further into depression since they flew out here.

  
  


An eerie silence drifts awkwardly between them and for a few miles all that Brad can hear is the solid hum of the engine beneath him, well, that and the sound of Mike crying. Again. Rob starts to fiddle with the cuffs of his sleeves, out of habit more than anything but Brad, he knows what’s under those baggy sleeves and it scares the hell out of him. When Rob lets out yet another sigh and glances at his watch, Brad feels sick when he catches a glimpse of bandage that he guesses was once white. Only now it’s stained red.

  
  


And when Brad instinctively reaches out to touch Rob’s wrist the younger drummer begins to cry, soft sobs escaping from much further down than his throat. Brad wishes he would tell him why he can’t end this fateful rendezvous with his razor blade but Rob, Rob doesn’t want to answer him. He wants to pretend this isn’t happening; he wants to make Brad pretend too and remember, Brad’s brilliant at pretending even if it does come at a cost.

  
  
  


*

  
  


Brad’s sick and tired of feeling trapped by request of his friends forcing him to hoard away their secrets and self destructive tendencies. The thing is, Brad himself isn’t much better. He tries to keep sane, he really does because he reckons if one of them keeps their sanity in tact then it’s got to keep the others safe, right? Only safe is the last feeling that comes to mind when he sits in his bunk after yet another show and listens to Chester as he shouts at Mike and Mike in turn cries out when he finds himself being torn apart yet again.

  
  


Brad tiptoes to the back of the bus again and finds his knuckles turning white as they grip onto the doorframe. Chester’s laughter is malicious as it rings through the small room and when he’s finished his bottle of vodka, he slams it down on the floor and tells Mike in a sing song voice that he does love him really. Brad tries not to cry as Mike whimpers and his voice asks Chester to be a little gentler tonight. Brad has to look away and the next thing he knows he’s in the toilet throwing up because deep down Brad really can’t stand the sight of blood. He’d never tell anyone that because he figures that if everyone else has secrets then so can he.

  
  


It’s early morning when Brad’s sleep is disturbed and a forlorn Mike is standing outside his bunk with tears spiralling down his pale cheeks. Brad lets him in as ever, his gentle hands helping his best friend inside; his arms wrapping Mike up and holding him close. Mike sniffles and tells Brad that Chester  _does_  love him but he just gets a little angry with himself for doing so. Brad knows as well as Mike that he’s only trying to convince himself that. Brad sighs and after much scurrying around he finds a scrap of paper and his beloved pen. He’ll try once more he guesses, even if it does pain him to tell. Brad scrawls it down on the torn white page;  _‘He’s using you and I’m only being so brutal because I care.’_

  
  


And when Brad passes Mike the note, well, Mike just screws it up in disgust and then he’s gone which is a shame really because he could have done with Mike’s company. How selfish though of him to think that friendship could be a two way thing. Brad slams his head against the wall and closes his eyes. Brad’s sick of all of this.

  
  
  


*

  
  


Brad’s barely got back to sleep when he hears a crash and sounds of giggles and high pitched voices. He rubs his tired eyes and opens the curtain to his bunk to see Joe and two bleach blonde girls who can’t be any older than sixteen crashing about in the front of the bus. Brad has to look away because he’s sure that what they’re doing isn’t legal. When the cries and moans have come to an end and the silicone jailbaits have left, Brad waits as if on queue for Joe to hit the fridge. He’s kind of surprised when he doesn’t and a few minutes later, Joe looks up and gives Brad a wry smile. He tells Brad it’s late and he should be asleep. Brad glares back because he hates being treated like a kid. He likes to be treated the same, Joe of all people should know that.

  
  


Brad hops down and walks over to Joe, he raises his eyebrows and Joe knows damn well that he’s asking what the fuck those two girls were all about. Joe tells him not to bother asking and Brad laughs at the irony in that statement. Joe’s about to apologise when he slumps back against the counter and shakes his head. Joe tells Brad that for those ten minutes he felt more wanted than he has done for the past month, and if that’s the only way he can get a little happiness then so be it. Brad just pats Joe on the back and wonders when he became so fucking pessimistic.

  
  


And when Brad finally climbs back into his bunk, he falls asleep where a mirage of fragmented dreams take over his mind. Sometimes Brad wishes real life was a fucking dream. Things would be so much easier that way.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Brad stares out of the window as he sits in the lounge with a steaming cup of black coffee in his hands. A bleak staidness greats him as the bus rolls across France and he quickly realises that all those pictures he had in his head of a country of quaint little fishing towns and jolly old ladies scurrying around in blazing summer sun were very misleading. Then again it is the middle of winter and sometimes the seasons distort your mind and along comes the belief that everything is bleak.

  
  


Brad doesn’t have to look up to see that the person suddenly standing beside him is Dave. He’s always up after Brad because his bunk is beneath, and no matter how quiet he is, the bassist is always woken. Brad’s not sure if the drugs he’s been pumping into just about every part of his body have effected his sleep but he swears he’s becoming much more agitated these days. Dave takes a seat next to Brad, half mumbling good morning as he rolls up his sleeve and starts to pat his wrist. Brad asks him to stop but Dave just gives him a bitter smile and tells him that if he stops then so does his whole existence. The words hit Brad really hard and are still spinning around his head when the needle drops from Dave’s grasp to the floor and his body shortly follows.

  
  


And as Brad picks him up and conceals the needle, he wonders why they all worked so hard to follow their childhood dreams and have them turn into reality, because it’s plain to see that they’re all being crushed to misery by their fucking  _dreams_. Brad rolls down Dave’s sleeves, throws the needle in a bin because Dave says they’ll be in so much trouble if anyone finds out about this. Brad spent most of his teenage years being in trouble and he can’t forget the punishment he received. That’s why Brad doesn’t tell. He’s scared of the consequences. He’s always so scared.

  
  
  


*

  
  


Brad can’t understand a word on the TV screen in front of him. Rob says trying to understand French is the most fun thing he’s done in ages. Rob adds that that’s how  _fucking crap_  his life has become. Then he switches off the TV and throws the remote across the other side of the bus. Brad just stays still and bites his lip as Rob continues to sound off before stating that he wants to break something right now. He asks Brad if he’s ever felt like that and yes, he has so Brad nods his head. Rob smiles, leans closer and asks if Brad’s ever felt like breaking his own wrist because he sure as hell feels that way right now. Brad is scared at the menace in Rob’s eyes because he can feel it seething off every part of the drummer. Rob gets to his feet and storms off.

  
  


Brad’s not sure what to do. Brad’s not too good and dealing with his manic depressive friend. He ends up following him though, finding him crying in the bathroom and clawing at the scabs on his wrist with bitten down finger nails. Brad’s not convinced he’s strong enough to help Rob by himself.

  
  


And when Rob finally stops crying, Brad feels like he’s had the air sucked out of his lungs. He wonders if this is the way he’ll feel when he finds Rob’s body because Rob’s told Brad that suicide seems like a pretty good option. Brad wants to tell someone, but Rob, he says he’ll kill himself if Brad dares to mention it to a soul.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Brad feels like shit. England is colder than France and he doesn’t think much to their heating systems, that’s if they actually have any because an igloo is probably warmer than his hotel room and as for the conference room he and his five band mates are sitting in, well, it leaves a lot to be desired. Brad tugs his hoody tighter around him and as they wait for the next interviewer to appear, he takes this time to take a really good look at his band mates and surprise, surprise, it makes him feel queasy.

  
  


Rob looks like a vague memory of what Rob  _used_  to look like. Skin pallid, eyes sunken, he looks like he’s screaming to be saved and that confuses Brad because Rob says he wants to escape, sometime soon, when he’s seen a little more of the world and isn’t so much of a coward. That confuses Brad further more because he was once told that people who committed suicide  _were_  cowards. Then again what would Brad know?

  
  


Dave sits next to Rob, his fingers tapping restlessly against his knee that jiggles up and down in time to the imaginary song that’s playing in his head. Brad watches as Dave glances around the room, eyes wide and composure edgy, almost like he’s looking for hidden cameras that he’s probably convinced are watching his every move. It’s a shame. Dave used to be such a laid back, approachable guy.

  
  


Joe is slumped in the next chair, hand clutching his stomach because in between sucking on various throat lozenges he’s been non stop complaining of rotten stomach ache. Brad sent him a text message on the drive over, told him he should see a doctor because there was clearly something wrong. He never returned the message though.

  
  


Chester sits in the next seat along, eyes hidden by expensive looking shades; cell phone in one hand and cigarette in the other. He stares blankly ahead, body protected by expensive clothes and smartly polished boots. Brad notes the strong scent of cologne wafting from his direction. It’s no doubt to hide the smell of the straight Gin he drank for breakfast.

  
  


And finally there’s Mike. Brad’s heart cracks a little more not because he loves Mike any more than the others; it’s because he’s the one that’s hanging on by the thinnest strand of thread and if the stubborn idiot would only let him, then Brad could help him so, so much. Mike’s black eyes are hidden well by his thick framed glasses and the peak of his green LA cap. Skin as pale as Rob’s is tightly drawn over prominent cheekbones. Bruises are scattered up and down his arms, but they’re covered, as ever by a black hoody that seems to sing it’s own merciless funeral song. His legs and arms shake and he keeps his distance from everyone else which seems so foreign because Mike used to be so good at putting on a happy front. So good in fact, that his façade fooled Brad and it wasn’t until two months ago when this tour started and he walked in on Chester fucking him into a hotel wall that Brad realised it had been just that; a fucking façade.

  
  


Brad sighs and looks down at his hands, fidgeting with his fingers. He wishes that he could end it all, cast a spell on this endless black cloud that’s reigning over the band but he’s no fairy and this is no fucking fairy tale. It’s real. It’s happening and that thought alone brings a lump to the back of his throat. He’s short of running to the door and finding the nearest toilet so he can throw up but then the interviewer walks in, straightens down her dress as she takes a seat and promptly begins to real of a bunch of questions.

  
  


Brad’s barely listening, he’s just aware of Chester’s smooth bullshit voice running the mill, interjected every so often by someone else because he always leave the answers to them. It’s the only way. But then there’s a pause and Brad realises he’s been spoken to.

  
  


‘And Brad, do you have any advice for any fans who are living with similar medical conditions as you?’

  
  


Brad glances up, notices the pen and pad being thrust his way and takes them, though not sure he actually wants to answer the fucking question. Medical Condition makes him feel uneasy, brings back the fears and memories of when he could never fit in because the only place he’s ever felt accepted is in his band. He hears her say how hard it must be as he pushes pen to paper and in his thick scrawled writing he writes;  _‘I don’t have advice anymore. No one ever wants to hear it.’_

  
  


Passing the notepad back, Brad watches as the interviewer reads the message, and not sure what to make of it, she swiftly moves on to asking Chester how many tattoos he has now. He makes some joke that his latest one says ‘Mike is my bitch‘, and it really pisses Brad off because given half the chance Chester would get that inked on his poisonous skin.

  
  
  


*

  
  


When Brad was younger he was told by one of many specialist Doctors that when one sense or part of your body doesn’t work, then you often find that another grows stronger. Like with some people who are blind their sense of hearing increases. He was told in his case that with not having a voice, being a mute, he may find that his sight was that bit stronger than normal and his hearing, well that was probably impeccable.

  
  


Brad wasn’t sure if that were a good thing. He didn’t know if it were even true but it sure as hell felt that way. He couldn’t help but question it though. Was he more aware or were his friends just blinkered by their own problems? He often thought about that question.

  
  
  


*

  
  


And when Brad slips back to the safety of his bunk he not only hears Dave’s snorts and Rob’s hisses and the creak as the refrigerator door opens, he also hears Mike tossing and turning in his sleep. Brad stops by Mike’s bunk, leans down and watches his best friend fighting against the demons of his dreams. Brad wishes they’d go away, but he knows as well as Mike that the only way they’ll ever stop is when Chester stops his abuse. They both know that’s not going to happen anytime soon and Brad climbs into his bunk with tears pouring down his face because he can either help Mike and ruin the band or he can do as Mike says and keep quiet. He realises it’s the same with everyone. Ruin their lives, ruin everyone’s dreams or keep quiet. Brad’s good at keeping quiet, really good.

  
  


That’s probably why everyone tells him their secrets.


End file.
